Merlin ficlets
by Archaeologist
Summary: Short tales of daring, humor, horror, angst and so much more. Between 100-1000 words long
1. Dragonfire

**Summary**: Kilgharrah's thoughts as he escapes Camelot**. **End of series 2  
**Word Count**: 261  
**Prompt**: Burn  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own the BBC version of Merlin; They and Shine do. I am very respectfully borrowing them with no intent to profit. No credits have changed hands. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

The sky was full of stars.

It had been so very long since he'd been trapped, buried alive beneath the earth, that now the heavens above him seemed almost a dream. Scattered light, white and gold and red spilling above him, was wondrous new. The moon, too, a near-forgotten face, was bright and full; it felt familiar, right, a friend welcoming him back at long last.

Kilgharrah wanted to laugh with joy.

An instant later, tasting freedom for the first time in decades, he leapt into the sky. Higher and higher, feeling the cool wind under his wings, seeing the infinity below and above him, he soared.

For a moment or two, his mind was brilliant with ecstasy; the knowledge that he was free was too wondrous to taint with thoughts of fire and death and sweet, sweet revenge.

It was only when he heard the cacophony of bells below and saw the towers of Camelot corrupting the evening sky that he remembered again what had been done to him so many years ago and by whom.

Uther Pendragon, the betrayer of vows, the murderer of magic. A tyrant king thinking himself immune to the consequences of his actions, and yet he deserved the same fate as the innocents he'd condemned.

To burn, to die screaming in agony.

It was up to Kilgharrah to seal that monster's fate, to finally rid the world of Uther Pendragon. He would raze Camelot to the ground if necessary but Uther would burn for all he'd done.

And if everyone burned with him, so be it.


	2. Screw Destiny

**Rating:** PG-13  
**Characters:** Merlin, Arthur, Uther  
**Summary:** Destiny can go screw itself  
**Warnings:** intense description of burning  
**Word count: **245  
**Prompt:** burn  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own the BBC version of Merlin; They and Shine do. I am very respectfully borrowing them with no intent to profit. No credits have changed hands. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

The hand holding him back was steel, unbreakable, determined. In his ear, Arthur's voice was a sharp hiss, warnings of silence and acceptance - Uther was watching them both - or it would be Merlin on the pyre.

He wanted to vomit. In the courtyard, the wood burned hot; the girl screamed as the fire took her, hair torching bright, skin blistering, melting, a sweet voice broken in sobs and agony, her cries rising, rising and then unbelievably, there was silence. As he watched, what was left of her collapsed into bright flames and ash.

He'd been told that Albion would rise like a phoenix from the ashes of Uther's reign, that it would be a golden age when Arthur became king. That it was destiny.

But all Merlin could see were the eyes of a young girl, terrified and his future king, his friend, he who talked of honour and protecting his people, standing by and doing nothing.

Apparently, to a Pendragon, sorcerers weren't people at all, only scum to be stamped out, to be burned alive. And when it was done, the king would order dancing and a feast and ignored the family weeping in the dark for their lost child.

Merlin would never accept this, couldn't celebrate this, not matter what destiny demanded.

When night came and the castle hushed into sleep, he'd leave it all behind, Arthur, Albion, destiny.

And for the first time since coming to Camelot, Merlin would feel clean again.


	3. Ghosts

**Title:** Ghosts  
**Summary:** Merlin is haunted by his past  
**Rating:** G  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own the BBC version of Merlin; They and Shine do. I am very respectfully borrowing them with no intent to profit. No credits have changed hands. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

The ghost haunting his dreams was not of magic.

The Dorocha, with their shrill screams, the cold grief left in their wake, the scores of frozen bodies strewn about like slaughtered meat, could be fought – with sorcery and fire and sacrifice. Spirits of the netherworld could be called from beyond, the Horn of Cathbad's deep sound ripping the shroud between the worlds.

Again and again the undead and the forces beyond the grave could be used to torment the living, could be unleashed with magic. And with magic, they were turned aside, sent howling back until there was nothing left but silence.

Merlin could deal with those kinds of ghosts. He could battle them into oblivion with power and sheer determination.

But at night, when the castle quieted, when the cool evening held its own kind of peace, Merlin tossed and turned and remembered the true shadows. They were not the specters of battles won and magic's vanquished souls but of choices made, of friends and loved ones lost through his own foolish hubris, of innocents dead because of him. Morgana's fragile faith in him turning into fury, and Arthur's misplaced trust, and secrets and lies that built and built and built until Merlin was buried alive.

No, the ghost haunting Merlin was not of magic.

It was the knowledge that when Arthur realized just how much Merlin had betrayed him, finally found out about all the manipulations and the lies and the magic, there would be only one ending.

A king's judgment and Merlin burning, burning on the pyre.


	4. Drawn in Black Ink

**Summary:** A tattoo was more than just inked skin. It was a brand for all to see.  
**Characters:** Merlin, Arthur  
**Word count:** 245  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own the BBC version of Merlin; They and Shine do. I am very respectfully borrowing them with no intent to profit. No credits have changed hands. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Whirls blackened his skin, the hot/sharp/shivery pain branding his throat like a slave's mark.

Merlin accepted the Druid's price for saving Arthur's life. In his heart, he'd already pledged himself to magic's cause years ago and on the face of it, it was no sacrifice to bow to their demands that he become one of them, to learn all the Druids could teach him. It should be a joy to relax among equals, to let the mask drop and just be.

But no longer would he be able to hide who or what he was. He knew the Druids were more courageous than he, never faltering, never hiding the marks that proclaimed them different. For so long, they'd been hunted and died, the tattoos a sure a target as any he'd seen. And yet they'd worn them with calm acceptance, clear in the knowledge of who and what they were.

He was not so sure. When he returned to Camelot, he, too, would be laid bare, a target for those who hated magic, and Arthur would….

He closed his eyes, letting another scrap of pain and black ink keep him from finishing that thought.

Truth be told, there was no way of knowing what Arthur would do. But there was no going back now.

All he could do was face what was to come with as much courage as the Druids showed every day.

And hope that Arthur was a better man than his father.


	5. A Simple Thing

**Title:** A simple thing  
**Summary:** In the end, a heart is a simple thing and easily broken.  
**Prompt:** Heartbeats  
**Characters:** Merlin, Arthur  
**Warning:** Major character death  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own the BBC version of Merlin; They and Shine do. I am very respectfully borrowing them with no intent to profit. No credits have changed hands. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

It was strange.

As he sunk down, soaking in blood and death and utter despair, his body numbed with regret, he could feel his mind slipping away from the unbearable reality, flitting past the carnage, past the body of the man for whom he'd sacrificed everything and focused instead on the oddity that was a heartbeat.

A simple thing.

He ignored it most of the time. Didn't even notice it. After all, his heart was just doing its job as he did his. A steady thump, thump, thump that he could tune out and focus on other things, like sleeping or eating or getting out of chores. He ignored the steady beat mostly; after all, that was normal, right?

Of course, he'd known when it strained close to bursting, when he, exhausted, pushed on anyway, knowing that if he didn't, someone he loved would die. Or when his heart seemed clad in joy as a quiet smile or unexpected hug or shared laughter came his way.

But now, it seemed to stutter, to slow with every breath, as if the ravening emptiness, an Arthur-sized hole in his chest that kept growing and growing and growing until it would seem his skin could not keep it from bursting out, was leaving a kind of nothingness in its wake.

A simple thing, a heartbeat, but one needed for life it would seem. And now even that was ending.

_Fitting enough_, Merlin thought. _After all, why should my heart beat when Arthur's grew still?_

So he knelt there in the offal and congealing blood, holding onto his cold destiny and waited.

For the final dull thud.


	6. Tangled

**Pairing/s:** Arthur/Merlin  
**Summary:** Merlin is really clumsy. Arthur wants to make it all better  
**Word Count:** 222  
**Word prompt**: tangled

* * *

Another crash and Arthur looked up to see Merlin tangled in the sheets again. How the idiot could trip and fall while gathering up laundry was beyond him and yet it was a good look, him all flushed and surprised, lying on Arthur's bed.

A mouth red from biting his lip, that dark hair a mess from Merlin constantly playing with it, his gangly, _tempting_ body splayed across the red coverlet, writhing, that pert bottom thrust up and down and up again as he struggled to collect the clothes he'd scattered. A good look indeed.

There was a quiet mumble of _sorry_ and _it won't happen again_ - Arthur almost snorted at that one. Of course it would happen again. On Merlin's better days, he tripped at least a half dozen times and when he was rushed or frowning or distracted, there were more tumbles than walking. It was a wonder that Merlin wasn't covered in bruises.

As his prince, he knew that he should take better care of his manservant. Yes, Merlin walking was a bad idea right now what with his falling on the bed, and still tangled in bed-sheets and laundry. Perhaps Arthur should help him realize that.

Perhaps he should make sure he didn't move from that bed any time soon.

And kissing bruises helped them heal, didn't they?


	7. All the Colours of Grief

**Title:** All the Colours of Grief  
**Summary:** The day after Arthur finds out about Merlin's magic  
**Warning:** Major character death  
**Characters:** Arthur, Merlin

* * *

**Red**

The blood had already been washed away by the time the sun rose - or so he'd been told. But Arthur could still see it there, staining the flagstones in the courtyard and no matter how much the servants scrubbed at them, or his unhappy wife insisted that there was nothing there, the colour remained.

**Orange**

His breakfast, oranges and grapes and apples, sat there mocking him. He'd often shared them with Mer… his former manservant and he used to laugh as the man grew sticky with juices running down his chin. Such an idiot but he'd made the days lighter, Arthur's responsibilities so much easier to bear. Now the fruit only made him furious.

**Yellow**

By lunchtime, Arthur was shouting after Gwaine, calling him a coward for storming away like that just because he'd followed the law. How dare he expect Arthur to make an exception for a _sorcerer_, especially one who'd wiled his way into the court, who knew all Arthur's secrets. Never mind that he'd been incredibly loyal and had saved his life more times than he could count. The law was the law and even a king had to bow before it, didn't he?

**Green **

He had no reason to object to the boughs of evergreen decorating the tables. After all, Merl… the sorcerer had arranged them only a few days, laughing about how exciting he was that solstice was approaching and the giving of gifts between friends. Arthur remember rolling his eyes as his manservant had woven a crown of holly and plopped it onto Arthur's head, declaring that he was the king of all prats. And a second later it had all gone so terribly wrong.

Arthur still had the holly crown. He couldn't bear to look at it but throwing it away wasn't an option.

**Blue**

The sky was growing dark, the colour of Merlin's eyes fading into dusk. How he had stared up at Arthur when the ax fell. That blue, the remains of friendship and sacrifice and acceptance. Arthur wasn't sure he could ever look at the colour again.

**Purple**

Looking into the mirror, he could see the tired bruises around his eyes and swollen cheek where the debris had hit him. It could have been much worse if Mer... if he hadn't thrown himself in front of Arthur, keeping yet another assassin at bay. It wasn't until later that he realized that Merlin had used magic in front of the whole court.

**Black**

The witching hour, midnight and he half-expected his idiot to turn up, mocking him with nonsense, bringing him sweets from the kitchens, and laughter rising between them. But it was bleak night and Merlin was dead and Arthur's heart, or what was left of it, was full of grief.

**White**

In the years that followed, Arthur longed for colour again. All seemed to fade, a little less joyous, a little less alive. And when Camlann came and Mordred slid his sword into Arthur, he welcomed it. Because he knew that on the other side, Merlin would be waiting - and perhaps then he'd finally find peace.


	8. Nothing but memories

**Character/s:** Arthur, Merlin  
**Warnings:** talk of major character death.  
**Summary:** Ignoring memories can sometimes be a tricky thing - no matter how hard you try.

* * *

Sometimes Merlin was so focused on magic that he had no time for memories.

In the moment, deep in the intricacies of spells and rare herbs and the precise language of magical processes, death's cold grasp was forgotten; the agony of waiting, waiting for a breath that never came was painstakingly ignored; the gaping hole in his chest, that Arthur-sized grief, was filled with distractions and formulas and bubbling potions.

Sometimes it almost worked.

He would arrange to keep everything at bay with exertion and meticulous fabrications and sheer determination.

But then there would come a hint of wood-smoke scenting the air or the sound of horses and chainmail and swords echoing in the distance or the potion-sharp tang of herbs that reminded him of kitchens and capons and warmth. Worst were splashes of red, Pendragon colours, in a bird winging through the trees or leaves turning in autumn's embrace or the cluster of berries growing just beyond the cave.

And the careful constructs would come crashing down and he'd have to fight all over again to forget. More effort, more magic, more memories to ignore. It was an endless cycle of desperation and grief.

More than once, he'd thought of using magic to erase it all, to give him peace at last.

But he knew he couldn't. Arthur deserved better than to be forgotten because of Merlin's failures.

And so it went, cycle upon cycle, year after year - waiting for the day when his grief might turn to joy and he could make new memories and finally, finally feel Arthur's warm hand in his own.


	9. A Helping Hand

**Rating:** G  
**Character/s:** Arthur, Merlin  
**Summary:** They are lost in the forest. Again.  
**Warnings:** None

* * *

A king doesn't get lost. At least, not lost where anyone can see. Of course, Merlin sees everything and it's quite annoying when Arthur is pretending that it's all fine and he meant to go that way, even if the damnable forest is impenetrable and dark and tears at his cloak.

After all, Arthur is a great tracker and a better hunter and it doesn't help that Merlin is babbling behind him about herb-encrusted capons and how it's getting colder and night is falling and how would he ever get those stains out of Arthur's breeches and ….

At some point, Arthur would have tuned him out but he is shivering and wet and there is a blister forming on his left toe, and confound it all to hell, it isn't as if Arthur isn't trying.

Finally, he's had enough.

Arthur rounds on him, giving him a glare that even Gaius would applaud. "If you think you can do a better job, have at it."

For a moment, there is a flash of guilt in those guileless blue eyes, almost as if Merlin could read Arthur's mind and know that he's embarrassed - just a bit - about the whole thing.

But then Merlin's face brightens up and he sends Arthur a luminous smile as he pushes past him. He doesn't even have the decency to let Arthur lead, as would be proper for a servant to do, just surges forward, arms flailing and tripping over his own feet in his eagerness. Even worse, as he moves past Arthur, he grabs his hand and tugs him along.

The warmth surprises him, so much so that he doesn't try and pull away, just follows, hand-in-hand with his clotpole of a servant.

If anyone else were around, he'd be yelling at such liberties. But it soothes him instead, as if Merlin's touch is a balm in the cold night air, as if somehow, holding onto him like that is an acknowledgement that they are not just servant and master, but friends and perhaps, in time, more than friends.

So Arthur doesn't pull away, even when he starts to recognize where they are and the towers of Camelot come into view. He doesn't pull away as they walk down the hill toward the town; he doesn't pull away as the knights ride towards them both.

He doesn't pull away at all.

It is only when others get close that Merlin finally falls back, letting go of Arthur's hand, and gesturing with his usual idiocy for Arthur to move ahead and pretend that he'd been the one to lead them out of the forest. As if they didn't both know who did.

But as Arthur nods to his knights and his people and tries to look the regal tracker who rescued his featherbrained manservant yet again, he realizes that he found something in the forest after all.

A king never gets lost.

But sometimes he can find a new path with a warm hand in his.


	10. Trying to Forget

**Summary: **Over the centuries, Merlin tries to lose himself in drugs and alcohol  
**Warnings: **drug use, alcohol use  
**Word Count: **150

* * *

Merlin mostly stayed away from liquor. Over the years, the centuries, he must have gone through barrels of wine, explored the numbing effects of mead and hard cider, the smoky abyss of whiskey and quick oblivion of vodka and it didn't help. Oh, for a moment, he'd forget the pain in his heart but it always came back. Always came back.

He found drugs to be more effective - cocaine and heroin, LSD and those little mushrooms - and when mixed with alcohol, it almost worked. Almost.

He'd lost himself in a wash of booze and pills the day Arthur returned. Didn't recognize him in the mind-numbing haze, in the crazed attempt to drown in forgetfulness.

But once he'd come down, once he'd vomited out all his loneliness, all his pain and saw that beloved face, he knew he'd never need alcohol or drugs again.

His Arthur was home.

At long last.


	11. Pretending

**Rating:** G  
**Pairing/s:** Arthur/Gwen  
**Character/s:** Lancelot, Arthur, Gwen  
**Summary:** For Lancelot, the Dorocha finally gave him a way to cope with loving Gwen.

* * *

Pretending - it was just another word for lying, another word for hiding beneath a stoic face and soft words and unending duty.

Most of the time, Lancelot tried to ignore his love for Gwen. She had chosen someone else, and when he saw that she was happy with Arthur, he told her that he was glad of it.

It was a lie, of course, a pretence. He still wanted her, still loved her. But it was his own damn fault. He had left her behind - twice, thinking that it was for the best, that she was better off without him. When Arthur stepped in to take his place, he couldn't really blame Gwen for choosing the better man.

Lancelot had no one to blame but himself.

But when he realized what he had thrown away, when he finally knew that he'd never love another, when he understood that his life would be forever clouded by what-ifs, instead of accepting what he'd done and trying to move on, he grew reckless. He drove himself to greater and greater feats of daring and heroic stupidity. And he only grew more despondent with every royal acknowledgement of his 'bravery'.

He felt as if he were drowning in regret.

Then, revolted by his own inaction and his cowardly inability to cope, he begged Arthur to send him away. He reminded the king of marauders and howling wolves and how the neighbouring rulers were seeking to undermine all Arthur had done. He spoke of the defence of the realm and how his skills with a sword would be best used, not at court, but where the dangers were, in the far reaches of the kingdom.

Of course, Arthur refused to hear of it. He said he needed his best knight at the citadel helping with recruits. He insisted that Lancelot was a model for them all, an example of how a peasant could achieve greatness among the knights of Camelot and how no one would be able to see his achievements if Lancelot were far from court.

In her own way, Gwen, too, refused to let him go, but it was a subtler thing. Although they were never alone, during banquets and fetes and training sessions, Lancelot caught her staring at him, worry and guilt in her face. And when he gazed back, she quickly turned away, pretending, always pretending that she didn't know how he felt about her, that she couldn't see the love in his eyes.

Lancelot watched as she sent smiles Arthur's way, or saw the two of them walking together sharing secrets or in alcoves whispering.

He was a coward for not being strong enough to leave and yet he couldn't, he couldn't.

He was trapped by it all and it was strangling him inch by slow inch.

But at last the Dorocha gave him a way out.

Before they left on their mission to close the rift, with soft smiles and hesitation, Gwen asked him to protect Arthur. She must have known that he could deny her nothing. She must have known somehow that Arthur would be an idiot and try and sacrifice himself for Camelot, and that, with his vow, Lancelot would protect his king even from his own folly. He would die first before he'd let Arthur be hurt.

A petty man might have raged at her for it but he was grateful.

Because, in the end, it was no sacrifice for Lancelot to walk into the Dorocha's deadly trap and leave everything behind. Instead, it was a relief.

Because, in the end, he could finally stop pretending.


	12. Dancing in the Night Sky

**Title:** Dancing in the Night Sky  
**Rating:** G  
**Character/s:** Merlin  
**Summary:** Contemplating his future the night before Merlin arrives at Camelot

* * *

The smoke drifted upward, sparks wafting into the night sky. Above his head, the stars were brilliant, seemingly close enough to touch and Merlin leaned back, looking up at the scatter of colour and light spilling across the darkness.

Letting the forest's quiet seep into him, he sat there a while, trying not to think of the future. He watched as the embers dipped and whirled in their eager rush towards the stars. The pop of burning wood, the sway of trees whispering of soft summer nights, would have soothed him in other circumstances but this was his first time away from home and alone.

His mother had bundled him out of Ealdor, quickly, too quickly.

Once she'd found out that Will knew about Merlin's magic, there was no arguing against her. She'd told him that his going to Camelot was a wonderful opportunity, that Gaius would train him well, that he'd become something more than a dirt farmer. That no matter how great his gift, the village was too dangerous for him.

He knew she didn't really want him to go but the fear in her eyes was enough, more than words could ever say. All he could do was nod and gather up his things.

With that, a kiss on his forehead that somehow felt like finality and she sent him on his way.

Now, he was alone, with nothing but a sky full of cold stars and an unknown future.

But as he lay there, trying not to let fear in, there was another sizzle and a sharp pop and more sparks flew up, twirling above him, mocking him, almost daring him.

He couldn't help it. Gathering up his magic, he pulled them into a light-filled picture of his mother smiling, gazing at him tenderly, so proud, so hopeful. As they twirled and dipped and danced around his head, his mother nodding acceptance, he felt better.

And when he let the embers finally float free into the night sky, he knew that he was no longer alone.

He had his magic.

Tomorrow he'd find a new place in Camelot, one where he could use his gifts for good, where he wouldn't have to hide anymore. His mother was right.

Tomorrow would be a new day and he was travelling toward a brighter future, one where he'd be able to gather up the sparks of his life and turn them into a brilliant dance.

Tomorrow would be the start of something magical.


End file.
